Vice Versa
by Wisdom Witch
Summary: When a plot for revenge goes wrong, England sends France into another dimension similar to their own, only more... feminine. England is shocked to find that the France he next sees is not the France he knows, however is unwilling to reverse the spell. Little does he know that nations were not meant for inter-dimensional travel, and that dire consequences await them all... Nyotalia.
1. Accidents Happen

**A/N: … Hi all. I know I should probably work on the many stories I have temporarily abandoned (hue hue), but this plot bunny just would not get out of my head, and I just had to write it down. Okay, onto business: the character of Picardy is included in this chapter (spoiler!) because, for those who don't know, he actually is a character in Hetalia and not an OC. Yeah, I don't know why either, but he made his appearance on one of the Halloween webcomics, so I'll just take the liberty of using him in this. I just wanted to clarify in case anyone got confused about why the fuck a region was in this story XD. So just to be clear, this is a Nyotalia and Hetalia crossover... you probably all knew that though xD. Also, although this fanfiction is co-labelled under "Humor", it may not feel like one at first and will *probably* continue as it is; it'll also be quite dramatic at times, although not overly so; hence why it is co-labelled under the category of "Drama". Basically, it's just an odd mesh of the two that seems ridiculous and at times parody-like whilst also having rather serious aspects. Still not turned off yet? I like you ;). Well, I'll see how you feel about that later on, then, eh? Oh! Fair warning: there is a small author's note at the end providing translations, but know that they may not always be there in future chapters.**

 **Have fun ;)**

* * *

 **Chapter** **One**

Door flinging open and slamming back against the stone wall, the blond nation irately stormed through the passageway and down the weathering steps at a hurried pace. His slightly heeled boots clacked against the cold stone, the sharp noises resonating across the cavernous chamber as he pressed on. His flaxen hair was in a particularly horrifying state of disarray, with strands of honey-wheat masking large emerald orbs, eyes alight with a maddening fury, glued just beneath a pair of monstrous eyebrows, which tugged downwards slightly.

Teeth grit together, his feet finally made contact with solid ground as his eyes fixed themselves on the centrepiece of the nation's underground lair; a gargantuan, murky, tome-like spellbook set upon a towering book stand, one fashioned purely from a dark marble.

The seemingly-perpetual scowl carved upon England's face did not waver; indeed, it only deepened in spite of him having reached his destination. He wandered further into the grimly-lit room, stepping into the chalk-engraved circle that lay etched into the stone, with rays of a blinding white tracing back to its roots; the book stand itself. It took him little to no time to reach the spellbook, which he none-too-gently grasped at. His blazing eyes of emerald green began leafing through the yellowing pages, his fingers deftly flipping over page after page as he scanned for the right spell; a feat rather difficult to accomplish in his current state of mind.

For inebriated though he undoubtedly was, it was his irrepressible and untameable anger that prevented him from thinking straight, his cheeks still dusted a diminishing pink, a remnant of the broiling fury that had not completely disappeared, whilst his ears remained a fiery crimson.

The red that obscured his vision had yet to dissipate, with the brunt of his anger directed towards he whom he considered his arch-nemesis. The nation in question, one with whom he had been at odds for centuries, had, in spite of their new-founded and uneasy alliance (which had now been completely tarnished, in England's righteous opinion), committed an act of the unspeakable kind, one which most certainly could not go unpunished, and would never be forgiven. It was he who was to blame for England's sour mood, and he who would pay a hefty price.

England's following actions would ensure that he had adequately enacted his revenge.

After all, anyone who dared make an embarrassment of the great nation of England was sure to suffer... and this time, England was going to make sure that France truly suffered.

An eye for an eye was what he sought, and as he perused the spellbook at an almost impossible speed, he knew for sure that it was what he'd get.

Giddiness gradually mingling with his fury, England flipped through the spells he deemed unworthy of his master plan. His eyes sought out transfiguration spells, and, more specifically, the spell needed to transfigure a specific type of entity into a frog.

Oh, he knew he could aim higher and pick a harsher punishment- goodness knows he would have, circumstances given- but it was England's moderate concern for the lives of all dwelling within his borders that prevented him from taking such a course of action. After all, he wanted to enact his revenge on France- not start a war with him!

… There would be time for that later.

However, as the minutes wore on with no sign of the desired spell, England's hope began to dwindle along with his morale.

But his desire and lust for revenge only increased.

His aggravation augmenting at not finding what he sought, England continued his paging at a more rapid pace. When it became clear that it was not the correct book that he had brought down to the casting chamber, England's fury was once more ignited. For you see, this little attack on France had been premeditated for a while now- the entire length of the Summit, really. So England, certain that this was the book he would need, had placed it down here for safekeeping. He hadn't really planned on using it- although he'd thought about it on more than one occasion- but he'd doubted he'd be in need of it any time soon...

That is, until today, when the foppish frog had, much to England's shame, made a complete mockery of the emerald-eyed nation, and had him played a fool.

England's teeth grit together, his hands balling into fists as his right one clenched around a yellowed page so tightly that it threatened to rip it out. His knuckles had turned a palish colour, and his emerald eyes now burned with a maddening fury that hadn't been unleashed for far too long a time. No, he would not let this go. He would not forgive.

He would find something. He had to.

… And no sooner than the thought had flitted through his head than he laid eyes upon a particularly... interesting transfiguration spell.

The writing detailing the effects of the spell, cursive and far too small for him to read (something he blamed on his half-drunken state), was incomprehensible, but England took what he could from the intricate drawing underneath the text. The picture itself consisted of two humanoid entities, those of a male and a female, with a pointed arrow linking the duo and two, minuscule spheres at the bottom of the male and female forms. From what the green-eyed nation could gather, the drawing represented a transformation of sorts.

England's upper lip curled slightly, the corner of his mouth rising to form a smirk.

 _Yes._

This was it.

This was what he'd been looking for.

Although practically female himself, what better way to humiliate France than by transforming him into an actual woman?

A triumphant leer overtaking his facial features, England's eyes sponged up the incantation, his lips parting to mouth over the words every so often, reciting the aforementioned incantation in his head before he felt ready to cast the spell (or curse, as he delightfully classed it).

Giving a thunderous clap of his hands that echoed throughout the cavernous chamber, England outstretched his arms so that they hovered above either side of the spellbook, casting his dark penumbra over the dank pages as he spoke with a deep voice not of his own,

" _Oitatum_ _tes subivalc susrevnoc da coh mulucsam manimef sitentopinmo sibrev mucet menmad mestoh anretea ytinimef Franciam!_ "

He repeated the incantation until the bluish sheen that had long since engulfed his hands in a vivid glow erupted in a fire of a wild orange, with England jerking his head back to avoid the sudden outburst of flames. They dwindled not moments later, and rapidly extinguished themselves, leaving no trace of their existence.

No sooner than the flames had died out than a sudden quake hit the chamber, almost knocking England off his feet. Green eyes widened to the size of saucers, the blond nation struggled to retain his footing as another low rumble shook the ground beneath him. His hands reached out to grasp at the sides of the book stand, which was deeply rooted into the earth, and he squeezed his eyes shut as minor earthquakes rattled the room. He remained like that for a while, before his ears picked up on an odd wheezing noise, and a wisp of translucent light trailed from the open page of the book up into the air. The quakes halted immediately, and England's enlarged emerald eyes stared in utter stupefaction, mesmerised by the display before them.

England was snapped out of his stupor when the wisp of light shot upwards, brightening and enlarging its reach until it engulfed the entire chamber. England was forced to squeeze his eyes shut by the sheer brightness that surrounded him, and the wheezing noise started up again, ringing in his ears before everything came to an abrupt stop.

Only a second later did the explosive reaction occur, and this time England could do nothing to refrain from soaring to the other end of the room, his back connecting sharply with the cold stone wall before his body dropped to the floor, his face smacking against the ground as all energy seemed to be drained from him. Unable to move, England remained flat against the earth, his arms stretched out on either side of his person, his hands level with his head.

And then it stopped.

Utterly flummoxed, England continued to lie flush against the floor for a few more minutes. Then, slowly, he pulled himself up and righted his position, wobbling slightly as he did so. His emerald eyes were locked on the spellbook the entire time, his expression one of confusion mingled with worry. His large eyebrows tugged downwards to form a frown, and he cautiously took a step forth, edging closer to the mystic tome.

Outstretching a trembling hand, England's fingers brushed against the open pages, tracing their edges. His eyes were wide, and his lithe fingers quivered above the spellbook.

He had no idea what had happened, nor why it had; his head was beginning to ring slightly, surely as a consequence of his unconventional fall.

And yet, not as deep down as he'd wished, he could feel that something was wrong.

So very, very wrong.

As to what, he did not know...

… and he would remain unknowing until the following morning.

/././././

It was with overwhelming dismay that France was roused from his slumber by the shrill beep of the alarm clock.

Blearily blinking his eyes open, France groaned against his pillow, effectively muffling his pained moan, and feebly closed his eyes again at the glare of light that met them, the sunlight seeping through the wooden blinds and into the brightening room. He instinctively outstretched a hand to put a stop to the alarm's screeching, clicking it off before letting his arm plummet through the gap between his bed and the bedside table. The golden-haired nation of romance unceremoniously rolled in his bed, lifting his aching head slightly as he did so.

France nuzzled his nose into his pillow, giving a muted wince at the pounding his head experienced. Frowning, France briefly wondered why his head was hurting so and what had transpired the night before.

Attempting to render his memory more lucid, France began to recall what had happened before he went to bed. He'd spent the night with Spain and a beautiful green-eyed country- Belgium, perhaps? Yes, it had to be her- and he'd partied hard and drank much more than was the norm for him- so much so that he could barely remember Spain hauling him up to his hotel room, almost completely out of it, with his arm slung around his Southern neighbour's shoulder. Perhaps that explained the ache in his head- he was probably hungover.

France suppressed a woeful moan at this new-found knowledge. How, oh how, was he supposed to bear through the next meeting now?

France wallowed in his pained despair until he came to the conclusion that he'd just have to send in a replacement. Picardy was the perfect choice; the region was more than qualified enough to play replacement for a day. He was a force to be reckoned with, a natural anomaly- why, to this day France had no idea how his little region had come to take physical form- how odd it all was, and yet France could not but be mesmerised by this phenomenon. Unfortunately, the few who'd learnt of Picardy's existence or remembered his presence at that dreaded Halloween fiasco did not share his sentiments.

 _Pah!_

They were just jealous that their regions weren't cool enough to take form on the physical plane!

But where was he...?

Ah, yes! His hangover!

… Fuck, it hurt like a bitch.

Outstretching a lazy hand to grab at his phone, France plucked said phone off its cradle and punched in Picardy's number. He'd briefly debated on whether or not to call the Summit organiser first, but later decided to check if Picardy was free...

…. which he should be. France doubted Picardy would pass up the chance to act in France's stead at a G-8 Summit, one of the most important summits in the world. To him, it would be his time to shine, the opportunity to prove himself capable of managing affairs, an unrealisable dream come true.

France would, of course, abstain from telling him that he would do jack shit throughout the entire day. He didn't want to turn the region off by telling him the truth, after all.

The blond nation was so certain that Picardy would leap at the chance to act as France for the day...

… which was why he was surprised, and even exceptionally disappointed, at having the answer machine responding to his call.

What took him more by surprise, however, was the fact that it was a _feminine_ voice that greeted him.

" _Salut les meufs (ou les gars!)! Vous avez atteinte le merveilleux domaine de Picardie, qui n'est malheureusment pas disponible. Donnez-moi un coup d'file plus tard, et j'vous enverrai une photo trop sexy! La classe, j'suis une bombe! Allez, bise~._ "

France stared blankly at the phone in his hand, blinking slightly.

Huh.

Looks like little Picardy finally managed to get laid.

A smirk graced the nation of romance's face.

Ah, Picardy, you sly devil, you! Already getting hooked up- it had to be none other than a lucky, lucky young woman to be able to stay long enough to change the message on Picardy's answering machine.

A fresh tear sparkled in France's right eye.

Ah, how he made him proud.

Shaking his head with a benign smile etched upon his face, France gave a dramatic flicker of his forefinger, wiping the tear away as he redialled, this time calling the dear host of the Summit.

The call was answered almost immediately.

"Ve~ _buongiorno_ big sister France!"

France almost did a double-take, in part due to being referred to as "big sister" (was Italy- devil be damned- actually _mocking_ him?) and in part due to the fact that- impossible though it may seem- Italy's voice sounded more... high-pitched (the irony of _Italy_ of all countries being the one to call him out on his "femininity" was palpable).

"Italy, I'm calling in zick." France cut straight to the point, something that was ever-so uncharacteristic of him, opting to ignore Italy's "sister" comment.

There was silence on the other end.

"... _Italie_?"

France could hear the crackle of static on the other line.

"Er... _Italia_?" France spoke Italy's name in his own language, hoping it would snap him out of whatever reverie he had dropped into, "Are you alright, my dear?"

A shaky breath, "S-sorry, big sister. I- you sound a little-a strange... is something-a wrong?"

Again with the "big sister".

France tried not to be too annoyed, "I have a hangover."

Silence.

Then, "O-oh. Okay..."

France did not fail to perceive the touch of relief in Italy's ridiculously high-pitched voice.

"I'm going to get _Picardie_ to replace me- zat's not against ze regulations, is it?" France frowned, the thought not having crossed his mind beforehand.

"E-errr..."

France's frowned deepened, "Italy, are you okay?"

Truth be told, Italy's idiosyncratic behaviour worried him.

A lot.

" _S-si_ , b-but- don't you-a need-a help or a-something? Y-you sound really bad-"

"I'm fine," France brushed off Italy's odd concern as one would a speck of dirt on a tailored suit, "As I said, I am just a leetle hungover."

"Ohhhhhhh~ oh-kay. Hey, you want-a to go out tonight? Spain is wanting to take us all for-a dinner, and-"

Before France could let Italy fully start his tirade, he interjected, " _Non merci_ , my darling Italy, I zeenk I'll just sleep today."

As if he'd really trust Spain after last night. This hangover was clearly all his fault.

"O-oh. Are... are you sure?"

"Quite."

"Ah... and you-a don't want-a someone to check up on you?"

"No."

"You sure?"

A sigh, "Yes..."

"Okay, but... you're-a sure?"

France drooped his head, pinching the bridge of his nose, " _Italie_..."

"Okay, okay, if you're, uh... sure. So I get-a you a replacement, is that it?"

"No, I will fix it myself."

"Okey. Ahh, I don't-a know much about a-hangovers, but I suggest-a drinking a lot of water- so much that you should-a put it in a pot and boil it, and put-a spaghetti-"

" _Merci, Italie_. Goodbye."

"-and-a dash of a-herbs-"

France hung up.

Letting the phone drop back in its cradle, France raised a weary hand to rub at his temples. Damn this migraine.

Damn this hangover.

Rolling over in his bed, France had no time to ponder over Italy's squeakier-than-usual voice or even get back to sleep, as a sharp knock to the door forced his attention to be directed elsewhere.

Groaning, France rammed his head into his pillow, hoping that whoever it was would just leave him to suffer in solitude. How could it be possible that he was in so much pain? It was like a drill burrowing deep into his temples and re-emerging from the other side. France doubted that he'd ever suffered as colossal a hangover as this (although perhaps he had, but simply could not remember it through his pain)- it was almost as if his brain was splitting in half, screeching for help as holes were being drilled into it from all sides. It was simply impossible that he was in so much agony from a mere hangover- what else, though, could it be? France had clearly overestimated how much alcohol intake he could bear- which was bitterly amusing, considering that he, in spite of all appearances, was one of the largest consumers of alcohol in the world.

But even so, the acknowledgement of this fact did nothing to aid in the alleviation of the pain he felt- dear devil below, would there be no end to his suffering?!

Another forceful knock reverberated across the room, and France sincerely wished he could damn whoever it was to the fiery pits of _l'enfer_.

"France? France!" a hard and disdainful, yet effeminate voice called his name, "Open this door right now!"

France tried to perk up at the new-found knowledge that whoever sought an audience with him _(heh)_ was female, however the incessant ringing in his cranium prevented him from feeling anything other than pain, and so he failed to do anything other than haplessly flail about in indignation.

"France! I swear to the Queen, I will force this bloody door open if I have to!"

Well, that certainly caught his attention.

He didn't know how he hadn't heard it before (probably due to the pain), but that voice sounded distinctly English.

Groaning in his pillow, the country of romance cried out in an even more accented manner than usual, "Leave me alone, can't you see I am in dolorous pain?"

France didn't even stop to consider how ridiculous a question it was, for the undoubtedly English lady on the other side of the door could not see him.

However, said English lady fell silent instantly, and France briefly entertained the idea that the woman had left him to his devices.

He was proven wrong, however, as the door was brusquely kicked in and a slim figure entered- a figure that France could scarcely see, for he jumped so violently in his bed that his head became rapidly acquainted with the headboard just as the door slammed shut.

This, coupled with his already aching head, proved to much for the blue-eyed nation, and he snapped, "'Oo do you zink you are, barging into my room like zis?"

The figure, who France accurately guessed was female, froze, sparkling emerald eyes wide under bushy eyebrows, gawking at him in shock. France himself seemed a little surprised at how familiar she looked- perhaps a woman he had bed and had somehow remained embedded in his memory? It was possible- he'd slept with many a man and woman over the centuries (really, how could he be expected to remember them _all_ , especially when his head was experiencing such _agony_?).

The woman seemed to get over her shock quicker than France, though, as she scoffed in disdain, "Just another one of her little toys... Where is France, boy?"

 _Little toys?_

 _France?_

 _Boy?_

France came to the rapid suspicion that this woman was insane.

"I am France." he declared a little lamely, and without his usual gusto, for his head still _ached like a fucking bitch_ and he was a little shocked to be addressed to as "boy" (how long ago had it _been_ since he'd been called such a thing?).

"... Is this supposed to be a joke?"

"Why? Is it funny?" France forced out, his irritation at not being recognised increasing significantly.

The woman frowned in obvious disapproval, "Listen my good man, I don't care if you think you're protecting France with your ludicrousness, but I know she's around here somewhere, and I won't ask you again."

France.

She.

France.

She.

 **France.**

She.

 _She._

 _ **She.**_

"Excuse me, but you must be mistaken," France's eye twitched menacingly, "I am the French Republic and this here is my room. And unless you have me mistaken with someone else, I can clearly show you that I am no 'she'."

The woman's incredibly bushy eyebrows (seriously, where had he seen those before?) knitted together, "Clearly."

"Quite so," France inhaled deeply, "Now get out."

The green-eyed woman seemed shocked by his demand, as if no one had ever asked her such a thing. Maybe were France in a good mood he'd have felt ashamed of speaking to a lady as such, but she really had caught him at a bad time. Her eyes narrowed into slits instantly, and she growled, "I beg your pardon?"

France shot her a glare of his own, although his body subconsciously edged back against the headboard, "I believe you heard me the first time, _madame_ , and I would much appreciate it if you could leave before I lose my patience."

"You- lose your patience? Oh, no sir! You had better apologise and tell me where I can find that twisted frog before _I_ lose _my_ patience!"

A particularly vicious pounding to his head stopped France before he could launch a bitter retort, and he suppressed a wince, clutching at his head. The woman observed him silently, her chest heaving as if she were refraining from yelling at him further.

Finally, though, France pulled his hand back down over the comforter and glanced up at her, "You're insane."

And then, something truly unexpected happened, something that reminded France of just where he knew this woman from.

She snapped, "You dare call me 'insane', you pathetic little human? You dare deride me, the 'United Kingdom of Great Britain', or simply 'England' as my sisters would have it? You will soon regret that, mortal!"

And she lunged.

She attacked in a manner that France recognised instantly, a manner so familiar that he could not mistake it for the world, a manner which France could never forget; she attacked in the same manner as England did.

A startled frown pulling down his features, France had no time to further react as she raised a fist and brought it down on his handsome face, knocking it once more back against the headboard. France was astonished by the sheer force of the blow; a human could never have caused so much damage, thought he as he clutched at his nose once "England" had drawn back. And yet, if this woman were not human, then she wasn't truly a woman either.

But if that were the case, just _what_ was she?

It seemed as if he were not the only one confounded, however, for "England" was staring at him in shock, startled by his unnaturally rapid recovery. She gawked at him for a while, and he back at her, both silent and pondering.

"That... you should be dead." she finally spoke, her voice laced with disbelief, "You... I should've punched right through your head."

If France were human, and not in a state of shock, he'd have been doubled over with laughter at her statement; but France was not human, and he _was_ in a state of shock, and so he understood perfectly what she meant, and yet he didn't, because _what the hell_ was she?

France remained silent, so desperately wishing that he could say that she wasn't supposed to have done so much harm to his person, however he was shocked into silence, as equally startled as his assailant, if not more so.

"England" stared at him, quivering slightly, "What...-"

The door burst open once more, and in rushed a spunky-looking woman with cropped golden hair and dazzling blue eyes, "BRITAIN, DON'T-!"

The new intruder precipitated herself over the England imposter, making them both collapse, all the while screaming, "DON'T DO IT, BRITAIN, YOU'RE MAKING A MISTAKE!"

" **Aargh!** Gerroff- urgh! **_What the bloody hell are you on about?!_** "

"CANADA TOLD ME- S-SHE TOLD ME WHAT YOU WERE GONNA DO! DON'T DO IT!"

France felt no shame whatsoever in letting loose a pained wince at the sheer noise level. He was about to interject, and to order that both unwelcome guests leave, but had scarcely time to open his mouth before "England" seethed, " _ **I'm not deaf, stop fucking yelling in my ruddy ear!**_ Besides, France isn't here- she's gone, and left her queer toy behind." she jerked her head in France's direction.

The short-haired woman paused, very suddenly taking note of France's presence, gaping at the French Republic with her jaw dropped. She stared at him for what felt like hours, days, weeks, years, even, with such an intense look that France couldn't help but stare back, uncertain of how to react.

She gawked at him for so long that France jerked back violently when her boisterous voice boomed, "IS THIS FRANCE'S NEW BEAU?! He's kinda cute."

France, wrenched out of his reverie, spluttered, "Cute?"

He often heard the words "hot", "sexy", "beautiful", "handsome", "drop-dead", "mouthwatering", "breathtaking", "sublime" being attributed to him on a daily basis- but "cute" was definitely one he hadn't heard in a long, long time.

Too long a time.

"England" scowled, "He's a freak, is what he is- I tried hitting him, but- NO, _don't touch him_ , America!"

 _America?_

France froze once more as the short-haired one leaned forward to prod him.

Either he was dreaming of England and America in female forms- something which, he admitted, wasn't something new- or there was some serious, twisted hokey-pokey shit going on.

Judging from the headache France had long-since induced, he was willing to bet it was the latter.

Which could only mean one thing...

"America, I told you not to touch him!"

An indignant declaration, "You're not the boss of me!"

"H-hey guys, s-sorry I'm late-"

A döppelganger of America appeared from the doorway. Her eyes met with France's and she stilled, her sentence dying away.

They stared at each other for what seemed like an eternity, and France rapidly spotted the similarities between him and the double.

"Er... hello?"

France fainted.

 **A/N: Lame chapter is lame. I promise that things well improve from here on out (well, it's not like they can get worse... can they?). Also, if you're asking yourself why England had an underground lair in Italy's land... well. Magic XD. Hope you enjoyed this (admittedly ridiculous) beginning- constructive criticism is most welcome, and will be taken into account (as will any advice or comment). Thanks for taking the time to read this and feel free to tune in for more ;)**

 **Translations:**

 _ **French-**_ _Salut les meufs (ou les gars!)! Vous avez atteinte le merveilleux domaine de Picardie, qui n'est malheureusment pas disponible. Donnez-moi un coup d'file plus tard, et j'vous enverrai une photo trop sexy! La classe, j'suis une bombe! Allez, bise~._

 _ **English**_ _-_ _Hey gals (or guys!)! You have reached the marvellous domaine of Picardy, who is unfortunately unavailable. Ring me up later and I'll send you a sex pic! So classy_ _[French_ _expression often used by adolescents]_ _, I'm a bomb! Kiss~_

 **French-** _Enfer_

 **English-** _Hell_


	2. Absenteeism Is A Serious Offence

**A/N: HAPPY NEW YEAR 2016! May all your hopes for the new year come true! To celebrate, I have decided to post the second chapter, which, although far from what you'd expect, serves as an interval to our story. I'd like to thank everyone who favourited, followed, or reviewed; I only hope that I don't disappoint (although the chapter name is admittedly lame). Enjoy, and once again, happy new year ;)**

* * *

 **Chapter Two**

England hadn't slept that night.

It was not out of curiosity, of fear, or of disappointment that he had slept not a wink- rather, it was simply out of a recurring uneasiness, one that had him lay in his bed with his eyes wide open the entire night and which had prevented his body from lapsing into a state of slumber.

When the time came, he got up and out of the bed in which he hadn't slept and padded towards his wardrobe, craving nothing but sleep. He dressed himself in a jiffy, unwilling to delay the upcoming meeting any further. He pilfered his briefcase from its resting place, juggling it over to his left hand as he checked to make sure he had everything. As soon as he confirmed the briefcase's contents, he left his hotel room, almost as quickly as he'd gotten out of bed, and, mindful enough to lock the door behind him, half-jogged down the crimson-carpeted corridor. He almost sped down the massive, winding marble staircase that led to the reception, above which a gigantic crystal chandelier dangled in absolute security, proudly boasting its incontestable magnificence as it refracted rays of blinding light, rays that seeped into England's vivid eyes and seemed to stab at his pupils.

But now was not the time to admire Italy's impeccable décor, and so England hastened down and into the revolving glass doors, taking his leave of the hotel. Upon his exit, England's eyes sought out the coal-black limousine that was to take him to the hosting venue of the Summit. He spotted it in under three seconds, and immediately made a bee-line straight for the chauffeur, who had, in a very unprofessional move, left the car in favour of smoking an expensive-looking cigar.

England's right eye twitched, and he quickened his steps until he reached the brunet, demanding, "Have you gone out of your mind? Put that out right now!"

The chauffeur merely stared at England for a while, before babbling gibberish in Italian.

England blinked, before it came to him. His chauffeur was down with swine flu, and so Italy had so _generously_ assigned him one of his own. England remembered how relieved and grateful he'd been- to have a replacement so readily, and in record time- how splendid!

Too bad Italy forgot to mention that this chauffeur didn't speak a lick of English.

And to assume that England was fluent in Italian would be laughable...

…

… not that he couldn't speak Italian, because he could (if he'd bother learning it), but... well... it was Italian. And England, having had such a massive influence in recent centuries, naturally expected that everyone should speak English- after all, it was the international language!- surely a chauffeur working in such line of work would be able to speak English, right?

Well, apparently not, and as England began to try and communicate with said chauffeur, he made the decision that he should have a serious discussion with Italy on the way the fluff-headed nation treated his guests.

"Get in the car- the limo-" England stabbed an index finger in the limousine's direction, "You capisce that, si? The carra- get in- the carra!" England could feel the eyes of numerous passer-bys on him, and he suddenly grew conscious of his wild and cringe-worthy gesticulations, "Er- entrar el carra! La carra! In the limo! L-I-M-O! Limo! Entrar la limo! Oh for Heaven's sake, just get in the bloody car!" he snapped, and, to his astonishment, the amused chauffeur obeyed, chuckling under his breath as he chucked away his cigar and slipped inside the limousine, taking his place at the driver's seat.

Fuming, England followed suit, silently bearing the brunt of the chauffeur's chuckles, all the while raging internally.

 _How dare he?!_

How dare he make a mockery of him, the Great Nation of England, who had the Great Honour of internationally representing the United Kingdom of Great Britain?!

England did not remain silent for long, and the scorned nation's eyes narrowed into slits as he barked, "No rigolo!"

This caused the driver to dissolve into a fit of laughter, and England's ire piqued significantly. But in spite of his growing aggravation, England had no wish to further humiliate himself, and as such leaned back against the plushy seat as the chauffeur drove him to his destination (thank _fuck_ he knew where to take him). He sat silently stewing in his grouchiness, and once the chauffeur had calmed down a little and stifled his remaining giggles, he glanced up at the rearview mirror to be met with England's piercing gaze...

...which naturally set him off again.

"Chigichigchig."

England's upper lip curled at the man's chuckles, "I will make sure that you are fired, tortured, murdered, and have your remains fed to your family."

The driver, ignorant and deaf to the nation's threat, only continued to howl in laughter (just _what_ was so damned funny?) and England opted to ignore the man for the rest of the ride.

Which, thankfully, wasn't very long, for fifteen minutes later, England stood outside the desired building, and watched as the chauffeur drove off, wishing so desperately to flip the finger.

"Italian git." he muttered darkly under his breath as he trudged forth to climb the stony staircase, which led to contrastively glass double-doors. He entered the building with a sigh, clenching his hand around his sleek black briefcase as he stepped towards the reception.

A beautiful, dark-haired and olive-skinned woman sat at the desk, tapping away on the keyboard before her, her dark chocolate eyes locked on the screen, the silver earpiece seemingly plastered to her lobe glinting slightly. She appeared not to have noticed the blond country's entrance, too consumed and immersed in whatever it was she was doing to bother glancing up at the Great nation of England himself.

England cleared his throat, attempting to draw the woman's attention to him.

His effort proved futile.

And so, he tried again, "Good day to you, Madam?"

His greeting had come off more as a question, a fact which he berated himself for, however it did the trick as she glanced up with surprise, rapidly regaining her composure, " _Buongiorno, senore_. How may I help you?"

England had to refrain from rolling his eyes; did everyone in other nations greet others in their own languages? It was ridiculous- she'd heard him speak English, there was no need for the Italian. At least he knew that there'd never be such a problem on _his_ soil... everyone there had the common sense to greet one in the international language.

It seemed there was another matter in need of being addressed at today's meeting.

" _Senore_? Are you feeling well?"

England snapped himself out of his reverie, assuring, "I am fine, simply fine. I am here for the conference meeting due today- the eight o'clock one, in room..." England screwed his eyes up in an effort at recalling which room the meeting was being held in.

He was still trying to remember where it was when the woman affirmed, "The eight o'clock meeting is in conference room number five. However the legislations require me to confirm your identity before granting you access."

"Identity? Yes, yes of course you'd need to do that- wouldn't want any imposters getting in, eh?"

England gave a little laugh, and the woman blinked at him blankly.

England, upon noticing the woman's silence, cleared his throat a little, his face donning a pink hue of embarrassment.

"I don't comprehend-"

"Never mind, it doesn't... doesn't matter." He turned his face away.

"So... you are _senore_...?"

Confusion flashed across the nation's face, " _Senore_...?"

The woman stared at him flatly, "Your name, sir."

"Ah, yes, ehrm," damn, centuries of using that wretched fake name and he still hadn't gotten used to it, "Kirkland. Arthur Kirkland."

"And how is it spelt?"

England frowned, "Beg your pardon?"

She heaved a sigh, "Your name. How is it spelt?"

"Um..." England hummed, frowning. Was this woman serious? Jesus Christ, foreigners- another matter to acknowledge, it would seem. Biting back a sigh, England spelt out his 'surname'.

"And your first name?"

Was this woman an idiot or something? Seriously, who didn't know how to spell 'Arthur'? He understood it was an English name, but didn't Italy have his own counterpart? 'Arturo', or something? Gritting his teeth, England relayed the letters of his 'first name' to her.

The receptionist inclined her head as she typed in the given name. She waited a moment, frowned, then tried again. A bleeping noise was made, and her eyebrows lifted slightly.

She glanced up at England, a stoic expression etched upon her face, "I apologise, but your name isn't on the list."

England blinked, before turning his ear towards her, "Come again?"

"Your name isn't on the list."

England blinked again, before claiming, "That's impossible."

The woman flashed him a falsely apologetic smile, "I'm sorry, but it's not there, _senore_."

"Well... perhaps you spelt it wrong, then?"

The woman's expression darkened significantly, "I did not."

England was silent for a moment, before ordering, "Let me see that."

"I'm sorry, _senore_ , but you can't- _**cazzo**_!"

England had dropped his briefcase, and reached out and grabbed the computer, turning it to face himself so that he may read the names of those whose presence was obligatory in such meetings. His eyes scanned the text before him as the woman huffed indignantly, straightening her designer jacket just before he slammed the computer back down, his expression contorted to form a mask of confusion and aggravation. She gave a slightly muffled screech, and England hastened to apologise.

"I am so sorry, I didn't mean to drop it so suddenly-"

"Get out!" the woman seethed, her eyes ablaze in fury.

"I'm sorry?"

" _ **Get. Out**_!"

"But I have to-"

" _Sicurezza_! **SICUREZZA**!"

England resisted the urge to cover his ears, instead trying to placate the increasingly angry female before him. Out of the corner of his eye, he could discern two thickset bodyguards heading his way. He swallowed audibly, backing away when he saw them merging to the forefront of his sight.

"Good morning, gentlemen. I was merely trying to get to my meeting- I meant no disrespect." England gave a nervous titter, before halting. Just _what in the hell_ was the matter with him today? Since when did _he_ , the Great Nation that he was, quiver in front of mere _mortals_? He brought _shame_ to his inhabitants. He cleared his throat at his self-reprimand, and stood up straight, although not before retrieving his beloved briefcase.

The two bodyguards both turned to the receptionist, who confided in them some fallacy in Italian, before they both turned back to England, uttering something to him in their native tongue.

"Er... _perdone_?" England tried, but they only began to advance on him.

He flashed them a sheepish smile, not befitting of his facial features, and backed up a little until he could back up no further, for he'd barely bumped into a smaller figure, who, no sooner than contact was made, erupted in a stream of violent, unintelligible, Italian babble.

Recognising that voice instantly, England could honestly say that this was the first time he'd been so grateful for Romano's presence.

"Ro- Mister Vargas! What a pleasure to see you!" England turned to face South Italy, plastering a horrendously forced smile upon his face.

Romano blinked, before glaring in recognition, "E- Kirkland. What the fock were you doing?"

"It's a funny story, my friend, a very funny story- you see, I was just telling your _delightful_ receptionist here that I had a _very_ important meeting today, and then she says my 'name' is not on the list, so I ever-so-politely ask that she run the ol' system again, and she suddenly, out of the utter bloody blue, calls security on me! Isn't that funny?!"

England was certain he looked like a right psychopath, for even Romano edged away slightly.

"Yeah, well... you're-a focking late."

England narrowed his eyes and muttered darkly, "Yes, you can blame your shitty little driver for that."

"... What?"

"Nothing, nothing," England reassured, before suggesting, "I suppose we should head up now then, if we are tardy?"

"... The fock does that mean?"

"The fuck does what mean?"

"That bitchass word."

"..."

"..."

"... You mean 'tardy'?"

"The fock does that mean?"

"It means late..."

"..."

":.."

"Yeah, well... _you_ are the one who is-a 'tardy'. Not-a me."

England couldn't believe the unadulterated audacity that this pseudo-country possessed, "But... you just got here."

"Ha! As if I'd-a be late to a meeting that I'm-a hosting! Idiot, I was out checking to see if everyone-a was here... which I-a still need to finish."

"But I thought Ita-" Romano's eyes narrowed into slits, and England rectified, "I mean, Vene- er, Nor- ack, your brother was hosting?"

Visibly unamused by England's question, Romano affirmed, "We are co-hosting, you-a moron."

"Yes, but... you aren't a part of the G8..."

Romano visibly tensed, although for once he actually waved off what he must have considered to be an insult, "My idiot brother has had-a trouble with the preparations, so he-a enlisted-a me to help-a him out in exchange for-a seat at this year's-a Summit. That, and we're-a technically the same-a country, so... fuck you."

England had to ponder why anyone would want to attend and 'participate' in a G8 Summit, let alone _host_ one. He also doubted the legitimacy of this claim, and Italy's power to elect a new member, honorary/temporary or not (even though he did have a point about being same country).

"Right, right, of course... well, I'd... better be getting up now. 'Be seeing you."

England attempted to part with the rude and idiotic absolved nation when that wretched woman intervened, physically blocking his path all the while explaining something to Romano. England did not fail to detect how much smoother Romano's voice was towards her, and he could easily discern the light blush that tainted the receptionist's cheeks.

England did not even bother refraining from rolling his eyes this time, in spite of how ungentlemanly such an action was. Romano then informed the receptionist of something or other, and the woman gave an understanding nod before standing aside.

England inclined his head to Romano in acknowledgement before continuing on his way. Too exhausted to climb more stairs, England took the lift, only to find that his destination was only the next floor up.

Ding goes the lift door, and out comes the nation. England meandered about the hall until he found conference room no. 5, which wasn't all that far away from the lift. Even without the golden plates numbering each room, England was certain that he'd have found it solely based on the sheer noise level that originated from the fifth conference room.

How seven humanoid nations managed to make so much noise was beyond him.

Standing tall, England straightened his cuffs before knocking on the door, having forgotten to retrieve his visitor's key from the reception, and refusing to go back down for it. England could not hear the footsteps hurrying to open the door, as all other noises drowned this particular one out, however the door did indeed open to reveal none other than Japan, who, even behind his carefully crafted mask, showed signs of fatigue and had a general 'sick-of-this-shit' air about him.

England could not lie and say that he didn't sympathise.

"Good morning, Engrand."

"Good morning, Japan. Hard day?"

"The meeting has not even commenced and arready I find myserf awaiting its end with impatience."

England nodded understandingly, before picking up on something odd, "Wait, the meeting hasn't started yet?"

Japan shook his head in the negative, "No. Itaria has made the decision to wait untir arr the members of the G8 have arrived."

"I see... am I the last one, then?"

Japan once again shook his head, "France is currentry not in attendance."

England cocked his eyebrow, "France? _France_?! As in, 'I'm-too-good-for-everything-and-everyone-look-at-me-I-got-here-earlier-than-all-of-you-even-though-I'm-a-lazy-shit-and-this-only-happened-one-time' France?"

"..."

"Hah! He hasn't gotten here yet? Oh, this is wonderful! This is just- just... just..." realisation seemed to hit England, for he trailed off just as his eyes widened exponentially. No sooner than they had, than his lips tugged upwards. It seemed that perhaps his curse had worked- perhaps France had acquired a more... effeminate form. Perhaps this fact helped explain France's absence- perhaps France had opted to skive off in shame.

And yet... it didn't very much sound like France to hide himself in any form that he may take...

Perhaps he had taken on the appearance of a particularly hideous female, and his hopeless pride could not cope with the ridicule he'd face?

England could not hide the smirk that tugged at the corner of his lips.

"Engrand? Are you werr?"

"I am perfect, my dear Japan, simply perfect." his face the quintessence of glee, England patted Japan's shoulder as he proceeded past the silently stunned Oriental nation. He stepped inside the room, only to find Germany and America engaged in a rather heated debate whilst Italy seemed at a loss as to how to put a stop to their bickering. Russia was attempting to covertly sneak his bottle of vodka from his pocket, a thin line of saliva dribbling out of the corner of his mouth as his mauve-coloured eyes began to fix themselves on the bottle in his possession.

England made sure to steer clear of him.

His eyes scoping the room once more for a safe place of refuge away from all these freaks, he spotted Italy sulkily leaving Germany and America, having given up trying to break them up over whatever petty little thing America had obviously started. Feeling that the younger nation could use some company (and in dire need of a little chat regarding his personnel), England decided to make his way towards Italy.

Just as he was about to present himself to the dopey host, the green-eyed nation bumped into something- or rather, _someone_.

"Oh my, I'm terribly sorry, I wasn't look-" England halted upon noticing who it was, " _America?!_ What- what the bloody hell did you bump into me for?"

"I-I'm s-sorry, it w-was an accident," 'America' righted his position, only to stare back at England with confused violet eyes, "E- England?"

England froze, before his face dawned in realisation and he began mumbling out embarrassed apologies, "Oh. It's you. Forgive me, Canadania-"

"-Canada-" corrected the violet-eyed nation.

"-Canida," rectified England, "I thought for a silly moment that you were America! My apologies, my apologies- I didn't see you, see, and... well..."

England let his sentence trail on in the hopes that Canada would catch his drift.

He did.

"I-it's okay, England. N-no harm done." Canada flashed him a smile, and England hesitantly reciprocated it.

A terse silence settled upon the two, whilst the yelling match between America and Germany seemed to be nothing more than background music.

After what seemed like an eternity, but was in reality only three minutes, England was the first to break the quiescence, "Okay then, well, um... I guess I should be leaving- I need to have a word with Italy, and-"

 **CRASH!**

England was saved from any further display of discomfort by the sound of something being smashed to bits.

Both England and Canada whirled around to gaze upon America, who had, while placing his hand on the column-like stand for support, knocked over a beautifully crafted vase.

There was a short interval of silence as most eyes fell upon the vase, whilst England's landed on Italy to garner his reaction. The brunet was heaving, his eyes twitching, his breaths shaking- he appeared to be on the verge of a mental breakdown.

England subconsciously moved further away from Italy, even before the piercing screech shattered throughout the conference room.

Italy's scream heralded a new era of utter pandemonium to descend on the present members of the G8.

Noise erupted from all corners of the room as Germany recommenced yelling at America, sounding all the more aggravated, whilst America apologised profusely to the sobbing and grieving Italy, trying (and failing) to ignore the relentlessly mocking taunts aimed his way, courtesy of Russia.

"Ah, shit, dude, I'm sorry! The thing just slipped back, man- don't cry, dude, I'll pay for it-"

"Vhith vat money?" cut in Germany sharply, and America let loose a whinging, "Ah, not this again!" as the irritated nation continued, "Let me remind you zat your _genius_ idea has left you on ze verge of bankruptcy, and now you expect us all to follow your lead!"

"Bankruptcy? _Me_? _Puh_ -lease! You must have me confused with Rooski-butts over here." America jerked a thumb in Russia's direction.

" _Ehhhhhh?_ " came the confounded response of the largest nation in the world, and England could only hope that he wouldn't pick up on the implications (which he knew would prove futile, but he couldn't help but wonder if Russia's surprise would be overwhelming enough to let this one slide).

Germany, ignoring America's blatant jab at Russia, pressed, "Oh? And losing a twentieth of your GP over an idiotic 'project' that has produced no results-"

"No results? Excuse _you_ , this project is the best thing that's happened for the _world_ , and _I_ came up with it! Which isn't surprising, as I'm the only one here that even does anything!"

England was about to interject, visibly irritated by America's last statement, but Germany beat him to it, "Your 'project' is nothing more zan a time-waster and money-consumer, and I refuse to let you force your vailures upon ze rest of us! If you call zat abomination a success, zen I dread to think vhat you consider a failure! It vas a mistake for you to even bring this topic to us for the meeting!"

"A mistake, huh?" America's eyes narrowed, and England could practically hear the offence he took at Germany's statement, "Yeah, you would know all about those, now, wouldn't ya?"

Germany levelled him with a frigid glare, "I vail to see vhat you mean..."

Behind Germany, England discerned a knowing smile creeping up on Russia's face.

"Oh, please. We all know the real reason why you're even in the G8." America taunted, to which England warned, "America."

Germany's face visibly hardened as he, on the contrary, dared America to continue, "Just vhat are you implying?"

America opened his mouth wide to speak his mind when Japan, of all nations (and to the disappointment of some, notably Russia), interrupted, "Itaria, perhaps it is time to start the meeting? I doubt very much that France is coming on this day, and I feer that we ought to start rest we roose any more time.."

No sooner than the word "France" had left Japan's lips than the focus placed on Germany and America's little spat was redirected.

"F- France isn't-a here yet?" Italy questioned obliviously, peering up from his place beside the broken work of art.

"No."

"Yes he is, I saw him over there." Russia commented, taking a swig of his vodka without giving any indication as to where France would be.

" _Where?_ "

"You're probably just drunk again-"

"I never get drunk, drunk gets me!" Russia rebuffed England's claim, slurring just the slightest bit.

"..."

"..."

"... Russia, that doesn't even make any sense."

"Your face doesn't make sense, you big-browed freak."

America snorted in laughter whilst England huffed indignantly, "Excuse _me-"_

"I think you have had enough of this," Germany attempted to diffuse the situation before it got out of hand, and appeared behind Russia, swiping the nation's bottle of vodka from him, "You ought to know zat no drinking is allowed during meetings, Russia."

Russia's smile cracked a little.

"I am not drunk, seelly leetle magot, I am telling you that France is right there.", Russia stated, pointing at...

…

… Canadamerica?

" _Aaaaaarghh_! It's a _ghos_ t!" screamed Italy, scrambling back up off the floor.

"Hole-y fuck, it's another me!" America exclaimed, eyes wide.

"Hah, that's not a ghost and it's certainly not _you_ , America!" England laughed with an air of smug superiority, "That's Canadia, you fools!"

" _Who?_ "

"Where?" Japan squinted his eyes, "I don't see anything..."

"It's that- thing right there-"

"... I don't see it."  
"Here, you'll get a better view of it from here-"  
"What's a Canadia?" inquired Italy, rapidly having gotten over his irrational fear.

"Him." England declared, having moved Japan to another position... where he still couldn't see the America lookalike.

"Ohhhhhhhhhh... hey, he looks-a like America!"

"I know, right?!" laughed America, coming closer to his clone, "Hey, Canadiana! How long ya been here?"

"He's been here this entire time, America," England answered before Canada could get a word in edgewise, "Shame on you for not noticing."

"Yes, shame on you all for not noticing France." Russia berated from his seat.

"..."

"..."

"..."

"..."

"...That looks nothing like France."

"Actually, it does a bit..."

"Yeah, I mean... look at the hair... bet it's-a silky."

To test Italy's theory, America reached out and grabbed a lock of Canada's hair and began running a thumb over it, proclaiming, "Hey, this _**is**_ silky!"

"Ooh, let-a me try!"

And so Italy too began prodding at Canada's hair to test its softness.

Huffing, the only member who hadn't partaken in the gawking of the not-so-new-arrival, queried, "May I direct your attention to ze matter at hand? Has anyone tried contacting France?"

"Nope."

"Nuh-uh."

"No."

"Not me."

Germany's eyebrow twitched, "So during all zis time, no one thought to contact France?"

"Nope."

"Nuh-uh."

"No."

"Not me."

Visibly resisting the urge to face-palm, Germany struggled to reign in his aggravation as he ordered, "Italy, get France on the phone."

Italy did as was requested, and left the room as he did so. He came back soon enough, with the saddened announcement of, "He's not-a picking up."

"Vhat do you mean, not picking up?!"

"I mean he's not-a answering." Italy stated rather obviously.

Germany narrowed his eyes, "Vell, ze regulations state zat we can't start the meeting without all participants."

"Germany," England spoke up, taking a step forth, "I quite honestly believe that the matter at hand is a non-issue. France is gone for... whatever reason it may be, but the fact is that we are wasting time. Besides, I'm sure Italy would be more than happy to pass on his notes to France."

Italy nodded his assent.

Germany heaved a sigh, before acquiescing and turning to Italy, "It's your call."

All breaths were baited as everyone looked to Italy for guidance.

"Eh... I guess-a we should-a have-a the meeting then."

And so it was decreed that the conference would proceed without the missing member of the G8, but little were they prepared for the shock they would soon encounter...

 **A/N: …. Okay, this was worse than the first chapter xD. And extremely rushed. But I had to update on this day of days, and I know it's not quite what some of you may have expected but... oh well. Next chapter will focus on France, although which one remains a surprise...**


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